


Pionier im Morgenrot

by lichtkleid



Category: Rammstein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtkleid/pseuds/lichtkleid
Summary: At the eve of the fall of the Berlin Wall, Richard escapes East Germany through the Eastern block.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Writing about East Germany and the Wall is daunting, but it's a theme I've been looking at for a long time now, and I really wanted to bring life to it. Hope you enjoy, and that it's more or less historically accurate.
> 
> The line 'bin Pionier im Morgenrot' is from Till's "Viva Andromeda" in In Stillen Nächten, and it translates to "I'm a pioneer in the dawn".

Life's futile and it is confusing. But for the second time in my life, I feel as if I can give it purpose. The first time was when I played a guitar for the first time; beyond the joy of pleasing, something was struck deep inside me, a feeling of belonging and passion that I never stopped pursuing after that. The second time is now, as I sit across my best friend’s destroyed coffee table, planning my escape to the West.  
Till is obviously unhappy with my decision to leave East Berlin, but he cannot say he is surprised. Like everyone else, including myself, surprisingly, he always knew I’d try my hand at escaping the regime. All it took was a push in the right direction, and it came from the Stasi.  


He shoots me a strange look from the door where he is standing. I think I see pity and a twinge of envy in his eyes. I asked him to come with me: the unknown always feels less scary when you’re with someone you trust. But he fears for his little girl. Not unlike Flake and Paul, who like to complain about the regime but enjoy their little rebellious acts, he likes his peace. Suits himself; I’m too angry and too ravenous to wait for anyone. Still he was nice enough to let me plan out my escape route in his family house near Wismar, where the risk of being spied on isn’t as big as in the big city.

I have no right to feel fear, I know, for if I do, I won’t make it. But there is no denying that my body is shaking, that my head doesn’t feel quite right, that my heart seems too big for my chest suddenly. Till opens his arms and hugs me tight. I feel peace for half a second. Then I notice that he looks afraid, and, if Till is afraid, then I dare not imagine what is coming for me.  
‘Be careful’ he says. ‘I hope to join you soon. I hope we’ll see each other again.’  
I nod. I know I won’t be able to speak so I just nod and he understands. His child is asleep upstairs and I wish I could go and say goodbye to her, too, but how could she understand? I don’t feel any older than she is at the moment.  
I wish I had a strong father like she does, to protect me from what is to come, but Till won’t be here for me, and in the end I will fend for myself as I always did.  
But it’s alright. You have nothing to lose when you’re alone.  
The dawn is a few hours away. Despite the bright stars in the sky, Mecklenburg is always so dark when winter comes. In the forest, you cannot see two steps ahead of you, the dark is liquid and seeps in every corner. Life turns to black. 

Till and I sit on the porch, in complete silence. The air is pleasantly cold: it reminds me of my Octobers in my once childhood home. Till gives me his last cigarettes – the informal currency of our stupid little republic – and I watch the little flame of his lighter flicker in the night. I feel as if in a dream. It’s the dark, it’s the imminence of my departure, it’s the uncertainty of what’s coming that makes the present moment feel unreal. But as Till always said: the present is past already.  
I put out my last cigarette on my hand to make myself to snap out of it. 

The first rays of sunlight ignite the summit of the trees. Till turns to me. We share a wordless smile. My bag rests between my legs, on the porch. We ran out of cigarettes and it feels like a tragedy.  
I’m at a loss of words. I’m afraid now, I’m oh so afraid. What’s happening for me now? Is there someone watching over the clouds? My hands are shaking. There are so many things I want to tell to my friends of the East before I leave, before I die, but only Till is there and even for him I cannot find the words. Where is everyone, why am I doing this, shouldn’t I stay here despite all the hardships to endure? Isn’t this better than death – isn’t any pain better than death?  
I’m febrile. I’m dying. And yet a relieving feeling is washing over me. I am not sure what it is: the thrill of adventure, perhaps.  
Till puts his hand on my shoulder and lingers a second. I think he whispers "good luck", but I might have imagined it. He gives my shoulder a slight squeeze.  
I want to stay, but I cannot abide to the pain anymore.  
I’m going.  
I’m running to freedom, running to death, running to pain.  
I smile a strange but genuine smile, grab my bag and walk off into the first sunrays.

I walk alone in the light, a pioneer in the dawn.


	2. Sinnlos

I left Germany six years ago for the first time. I was sixteen years old: a group of friends and I went on a vacation in Czechoslovakia. The frontiers were slowly opening on the rest of the Eastern Block, and while we still obviously remained behind the Iron Curtain, that’s how we had our first taste of freedom. The government wanted to appease us by giving us this, but it backfired and we only started to want more. Hungary, where the goods abounded and the cities were lively, felt like a goddamn paradise.  
But back then, I had a passport and the government-issued authorization to leave the country: now all I have is my name in the Stasi’s files and a couple of mental scars.  
And it’s a long road to the West.

I had two choices when it comes to escaping: either crossing the Baltic Sea to reach Denmark, either taking the continental route through Czechoslovakia. I chose the latter because I had been there before, and I knew the way. On paper, my escape seems easy: a train ride to border town Pasewalk, and then, crossing the border between Poland and Germany by foot, but believing that it will be that simple is complete naivety.  
Before leaving, I thought about going with someone: there are many more people who try leaving the East now that travelling is a little easier, but finally decided against. I wasn’t sure I could stomach losing someone over the journey.

The four-hour ride from Wismar to Pasewalk, with stopovers at Rostock and Güstrow, seems endless. I try looking out of the window for distraction but I know Mecklenburg since forever: its endless wheat fields and swampy meadows, the occasional lake in which grebes and ducks float mindlessly, the forest with golden-leaved trees. I know it all, from the marshes around the fields to the color of the sky, it’s boring as hell out there, and it’s definitely not keeping me from being terrified. Every noise startles me. The calmness is so nerve-wracking that I’m sure that if someone touches me, I’ll explode. My heart is threatening to fall from my lips.  
I look out of the window and curse those fucking meadows. I hate Mecklenburg, I hate the East and I hate being scared like this. The worst is that, of course, I have to keep on a straight face: no matter how well-intentioned the other passengers are, you never know who’s ready to turn you in to save someone they love.  
I have a fake passport, just good enough to fool Polish and Czech border guards if needed, but no one from the Stasi could fall for that. It’s only been days since I was arrested anyway. 

Then I look at the landscape again and an unexpected wave of nostalgia hits me as I think that I may never return. Or, if I do return, it will be in shambles, in the hands of the Stasi, on the way to Berlin. And this time there will be no other chance. 

I look out of the window and regret not having seen the coast a last time. It was always my favorite spot in northern Germany. White, chalky cliffs falling steep into the sea; the clear, blinding sand of the thin beaches leading the eye to the blue immensity; the aquatic birds above the ground: black-throated divers, terns and seagulls of all kind; the ever-blowing Nordic wind that exhausts the men and pushes the grass down, and the little fisherman’s boats moored to the wooden piers, gently rocking to the movement of the sea. It’s a popular destination for young people, they like to camp under the cliffs. I did so myself with some friends before we left for Czechoslovakia. Later, I returned with Till, when I was just starting to know him and wanted to understand him truly.

And so I entertain myself with thoughts of a little house by the sea, in Hamburg or in Copenhagen, and cannot keep myself from starting to hope. It makes the time pass and distracts me from the noise in the corridor.  
The noise in the corridors.

Oh God.

I can hear it very distinctly now: heavy boots pummeling on the floor, closing in, and suddenly a hand opening our compartment’s door.  
They’re two, clad in dark blue, looking grumpy, and, strangely, tired.  
Everyone reaches into their bags to dig out their passports. So do I, as I try to imprint a blank expression on my face. Passport control is a mere formality, just another way to instill fear and make us remember how actually watched we are.  
I’ve been through this a thousand times. Why should it go wrong now…?

‘You!’  
I do not look but I know immediately that the bark is directed at me. Innocently, I look up, clutching my passport, and ask quietly:  
‘Yes?’  
‘Where are you going?’  
’T… To Pasewalk.’  
I try not to stammer, and try to refrain my hands from trembling, but I feel as if everyone could see my knuckles whitening onto the paper as I hand it to them. The other then grabs my bag, sets it down on the little table and start to inspect it.  
They do it thoroughly, searching every little pocket and feeling every article of clothing, obviously looking for anything that could be sewn into the seams. Seeing this, I silently praise myself for not having hidden Western money into them, as I originally planned. Instead, they dig out a few clothes, my wallet and its meager contents, a lighter and a pack of matches. Nothing suspicious, obviously, but what if they decide I shouldn’t be carrying this anyway?  
What if they already know that I want to go? It must be seen all over my face now, written onto my forehead.  
As they search my bag I can only see their backs: two dark blue uniforms and the thin, colorless hairs on their necks, heavy boots, hunched bodies. I cannot help but think about their green-wearing counterparts in Berlin; maybe I am to see them again, very soon.  
The thought sends my mind into panic.  
‘Why are you traveling to Pasewalk?’  
The other speaks this time and he has an accent from Saxony. His voice sounds eerily alike Ulbricht’s, and it definitely does not alleviate my fear.  
‘To visit family.’  
I swallow the lump in my throat, tighten my fists, then add:  
‘My sister’s having her baby soon and I’m gonna be godfather. Didn’t want to miss the christening.’  
And almost as soon as I speak those words, I regret them. This is a classic Stasi move: they ask you questions, and, after you’ve answered, they remain silent and let you stew, wordlessly indicating that they expect more. And because you’re frightened, exhausted and because you just want to get out of this, you comply, and you either end up saying an obvious lie, either telling them what they want.  
Nobody’s better skilled at asking questions than the Stasi, I should know. And yet I made that mistake again, as if those days in Berlin hadn’t taught me a thing.

Strangely enough though, my bag is suddenly tossed onto my lap, spilling its contents onto my thighs. The Saxon leans into the other, they exchange a few words then just shrug, nod, and leave without adding a word.

I sink back into the seat, unable to pick up my things, unable to feel relief just yet. My heart is beating so fast that it seems to deafen everyone. Do they not hear it?  
I am breathless, drained of all energy, and of all hope.

But I am alive.

 

The night is closing in as the train stops in Pasewalk. The town itself is nothing spectacular, just one of the many little towns scattered across Germany, with decaying buildings and bumpy roads. Mecklenburg is after all the poorest Land of the GDR, and it shows.  
From there, I take a regional train to Blankensee. It’s night when I reach it.  
Two kilometers ahead lay the inner wall.

I see it for the second time of my life, in October 1989: bleak and grim, insidiously terrifying. A maze of barbed wire, with dogs howling and rifles ready.  
I stand before the Wall in the cover of the night.


	3. Gottlos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the last chapter so you might want to reread it before this one :) hope you're still enjoying the story!

I stand before the Wall. In my mind, this moment has played out many, many times. Sometimes, I crossed it without a problem; sometimes I was dragged back into Germany, a bullet into my leg and chains around my wrists.

But now it is for real. No more planning. No more dreaming.

This night, I learn that I am a coward. 

I know full well what the Wall is made of: a barbed wire fencing with anti-personnel mines, an alley with dogs, then another fencing. Further, there is a vehicle ditch lined with observation towers. Alongside big villages, the security is heightened, and there is even a concrete wall at some points. Hopefully, here, there is no such thing.

But even though, as I stand there in the night, I feel my knees go weak. A voice in my head asks me if I’m sure to know what the Wall is, in the end. Do you trust yourself enough? I ask myself. Do you think you’re good enough?

It takes my mother’s voice and words she said when I left for Czechoslovakia, six years ago.  
It cannot be crossed, she said. And it will never fall.

 

And then I falter.  
I turn back. I will never make it.

I hide into bushes, lay down, and try to sleep.

In my dreams, I see my mother. We hardly spoke again after I left. And there she is, searching my bag with the Trapos in the train, ripping off the seams to fish out handfuls of western marks. But it is not just marks: she pulls out bundles and bundles of tightly rolled bills. Dollars, franks, zlotys, rubles, all kinds of currencies, and much more than my worn out bag could actually contain.  
Then, bill after bill, she ignites them with my lighter and I watch it all go out in smoke, until all that is left is the aluminum money of our so-called republic. And together we watch the bills contort into the fire, a depressing, yet unbelievably relieving thing.  
But the fire becomes alive suddenly: it roars and stretches and dances, tiptoes along the train, huge and untamed. Soon it’s breaking out of the windows. Running wild in the countryside. Pasewalk’s a giant pyre. It reaches the Baltic Sea, taints the white cliffs, dries out the marshes and the rivers, ignite the forest. It touches Mecklenburg’s old towns, the little villages. The thatched roofs are gone in a second. It goes even until Till’s house, his old house made with lava stone in the ancient style of the North; seeps into the rooms, bursts the windows, runs along the stripes of willow he uses to make Strandkörbe.  
My home is burning, my whole country is in flames, and the fire is still going strong, rolling towards Berlin to burn down the Wall.

I wake up in a cold sweat, feverish, and as unrested as possible. There’s no fire. Much later in my life, I will learn to control it. But no now.

Now, I cross the border.

The day takes forever to pass by. In Blankensee, I smoke my last cigs and use my last bills to buy a meal and a couple beers. A last meal before an uncertain death, and perhaps a better life. 

And when the evening is coming, I grab my bag and take the road again. It’s the exact same one I took yesterday, and I see the Wall exactly how I saw it yesterday, with no less fear, and no more hope. 

I feel as if the pyre of my dream was still burning inside my head.

 

I finally cross the Wall in the cover of the night.  
I have felt so much fear those last days that it is as if I couldn’t be afraid anymore. I am cold before the Wall, freezing in the restless wind, but not frightened anymore.

I climb the barbed wire fence. I am not afraid, I do not feel pain, I am chockfull of adrenaline and I feel untouchable.  
I touch the ground in ecstasy, not feeling my bleeding palms. I see no dogs, but I am careful with where I step; whether the mines truly exist or are just an urban legend, I would not like to die that way.

And suddenly a scream is heard, that brings me back to life, and to terror.

I immediately start running.

I run to the beat of my heart, as unsteady as it is. Someone screams in the distance, too far for me to decipher what is said, but it’s my signal to collapse. An irrational, completely uncontrolled fear overwhelms me all of a sudden.  
I sink to my knees and lie down. Ploughed by tearless, silent sobs, a fist shoved in my mouth to prevent myself to cry out. I lay down into the grass, praying to a God I do not believe in, my nostrils filled with soil and a metallic taste. When did I start bleeding?  
The screaming continues, I hear it's Polish. There's a shot fired, a bullet loose into the air I breathe. I sink deeper into the earth, the blood beating so fast in my ear I can't hear anything anymore. I bite into the grass and quiver, crying silent tears like children who don't want to be heard.  
An answer is given in German.  
My heart beats too fast and too hard for me to understand what they are saying. Does it matter anyway?  
I lie down, my cheek pressed to the ground with the intimate conviction that I will die this night.There's another gunshot, someone yells in pain and the soil trembles a little. Boots trample the ground. I realize that someone else has been trying to cross the border at the same time and that he was shot, probably in the leg. I can’t help but feel a wave of happiness at the thought that it wasn’t me. Immediately after, I feel guilty, because it should have been me. It should have been me all along, and, oh, how can survive this all now?  
I stammer a prayer. If there's a God, maybe he can save me after all. 

I hear the guards talking. The person who got shot is a woman, but she wasn’t trying to escape. She was defusing the anti-personnel mines, which is why I did not step on any of them as I was running wildly.

The night drags on forever. I remain lying down, immobile and silent as a grave as they drag the injured fugitive back to her country - my country. Silently, I thank her for saving me. I wish I knew her name.  
I wait for what seem to be hours, until the pacing stops, until the earth stops trembling under feet.  
I realize I haven't slept of the night, but I'm so nervous I cannot feel tiredness. I start to walk again. 

I feel like a cornered deer, the hunter’s breath in the bushes. I vow never to hunt again. I feel mad, I am insane and terrified.  
It’s never a good combination.


	4. Hilflos

I walk on war soil: uneven ground and defused mines. A small part of me is so tired of this game that I almost consider handing myself over to the guards. They’d end up breaking my soul in their endless prisons but at least I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. They’d take care of the thinking for me. And they would also take the pain, the thirst, the hunger.  
I’d live a half life but I would live.

Over the horizon of barbed wire, I see the dawn breaking slowly, a single red ray piercing the sky. A lifetime ago, I saw that same sunrise over the forest in Till’s village.  
I blink and take it all in. If I am to die here, I’d die happy to have at least tried to escape this.

My throat feels like sandpaper. Why didn’t I think of bringing some water with me?

I take another step. Just one another, I tell myself. And one again. There’s no time left for self-doubt; else I will collapse into the ground like last night and if I do make it out of the mined alley before the day starts, they will see me.

Another step. My foot sinks into muddy earth, and I think again of the threat of the mines.

Another step. What if she didn’t have the time to defuse them all?

Another step. What a shit way to die it would be.

Another step and I reach the wall of barbed wire.

Once again, I slip on my old gloves and I start to climb. This time, I feel every prickling of the wire, every cramp in my legs, the sweat running down my back and into my hands, making me fear to fall at any time.

But I do not fall.

I make myself climb further just like I made myself walk further, and I make it.

As I climb down the other side, a ferocious joy suddenly obliterates all other feeling in me.   
I don’t turn back. There is still the vehicle ditch to cross, with the observation towers just behind. It would be incredibly ironic to be caught so close to the end, but I don’t think of that.  
I know that I won’t get caught, and I don’t care anymore. After all, the harshest the trial, the better the reward, isn’t it?

Lowering myself into the ditch, running on euphoria, I try to calm myself a little and keep on walking. I almost don’t feel my dry throat anymore. I’m getting out, at fucking last, I’ll be free.

I’m just about to be -   
I’m free.

My legs shake as I take my first steps into Poland. 

My head starts to spin. Every one of my nerves is on fire. I keep on walking, aimlessly, on legs that feel broken. I am severely dehydrated, sleep deprived and starved and yet my body is strangely estranged from my thoughts. 

I walk thoughtlessly into Poland, suddenly exhausted. Surely my feet will find a road to follow at some point?

My walk seems endless. It feels like hours have passed when I finally find a way: a one-way dirt road.

I can assume it’s noon when a car passes me by, then stops. A bearded man pokes his head out of the window curiously. He says something in Polish, to which I only respond with a tired shrug, so he tries in Russian.  
‘You’re from Germany?’  
I consider not answering for a second. He doesn’t look too friendly, but if he wants to sell me out, he’ll do so regardless of what I say.  
‘Yeah.’  
‘Where are you going like that?’  
‘To Szczecin.’  
‘Get in.’  
Those are the most words he’ll say during our ride. As I climb next to him, he tosses a water bottle and a piece of cheese filled bread on my lap. I try not to be too voracious but my body is suddenly reminding me that I am only human, and soon the only thing I want is to sleep.  
‘My wife and I always help the refugees.’ he says simply, after dropping me off.  
I thank him with all my heart, and he shrugs it off.  
‘Don’t mention it. Anyone decent would have done the same.’

I quickly locate the station, and get into the next train to Czechoslovakia. I have no money at all except a couple of marks, which, once changed, will be worthless, so I board the train without buying a ticket.  
I sit by the window and fall asleep instantly. 

 

‘He’s a German refugee, just let him.’ 

I wake up to words spoken above my head. My neighbor, a middle-aged Russian woman, is talking to the ticket controller, who gives me a questioning look, nods, and leaves without further inquiry. And I fall back into sleep.  
I see nothing of Poland.

All along my travel to the West I won’t stop being amazed at the kindness of the people of the East. I meet with dozens of other refugees on my way to Hungary, yet everyone is still treated well. They don’t care how poor we are. All around there is just an urge to help us, as if through us they could help themselves to get out of this communist hell.

I make it to Hungary in one more day. Outside of the West German embassy, it’s crowded: I’m told it has been so ever since the barriers were opened. The personnel is incompetent and over busied, the queue endless and the frustration overwhelming.

But it’s soon over.

As soon as they give me my papers and my welcome money, everything is forgotten. My hardships, the woman who was shot besides me, the endless waiting. Suddenly everything that I ever wanted is there in my palms. 

A passport, a few bills, and a plane ticket to West Germany.

Two days later, I fly to Frankfurt.


	5. "the Wall will be standing in a hundred years..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the last chapter of the story, I hope you enjoyed the ride. Thanks for reading and all your kind comments :)

History proved my mother wrong.  
The Wall will never fall, she said, six years ago.

But it did fall, by a twist of fate, a month after my escape. I was in Frankfurt then, in a tiny one-room apartment, making a misery wage but being free, when the rumor came that the Wall was falling.

I remember this evening as if it happened yesterday. We were all delirious, all united, and all so happy. In a night, the world changed irrevocably. We made the ground shake under our feet, and lost ourselves in the ecstasy of being part of a greater cause. I regretted not being in Berlin with all my might.

I saw the images on television, but unlike everyone around me, my new friends and new acquaintances, I knew what it was like to be behind the Wall. I lived the regime and I had felt the fear and anger; I had felt them so harshly I had come there. And there they were, cheering over something they did not comprehend, and it made me feel angry and unreasonably lonely. They could not understand me. They had nothing to do with the Wall and while they were obviously happy that Germany was soon to be whole again, I thought their happiness was out of place.  
As I cheered for my country, as I yelled at my TV screen to show me my old friends, my family, as I wanted to tear down the bricks and the barbed wire I had been flayed with, there was an ingrowing sense of unfairness in me, an irrational anger than made me a bitter man.  
Where had been the West when we were trapped behind the iron curtain, and who decided that they deserved better than us?

My resentment towards the Wessis didn’t last long, but for many people, it did. In a way, we proved Honecker true, when he said that the Wall would last a hundred years: it remained inside our heads, silently estranging us from the other half. I developed a strange coping mechanism that I never let go afterwards: smoking. In the East, cigarettes were so sought after and so expensive that they were used as currency. Now I could afford as many as I wanted, and smoked ferociously, as a revenge on the youth that was stolen from me. I could have plenty now, plenty of everything, and I consumed and consumed until I couldn’t stomach it anymore.

Many were launched into the West without a proper understanding of this new world. Welcome money was blown into bananas and exotic sweets, then there was nothing left to do, once the wonder was worn off. As most of us didn't have degrees, we had no way to rise of the social ladder.

I moved back to Berlin a few weeks after, even though the reunification wasn't technically over yet: I met again with the family I thought I would never see again, the five men who were to make a revolution with me. We were to be called Rammstein Flugschau, and our music was to change the world. Then I had decided to make my own revolution by leaving the East, and all had been forgotten.  
But now we were together again. We could make it possible again. The world was just ours to conquer.

 

Strangely though, I grieved for my lost country a while. We were united but still separated, together but never alike. And I, as many others, turned to my Eastern friends, and we remained all together for a long time. It took years to open up. Not that our lives had been too dreadful; but we had to face a culture they called ours but didn’t look like anything we knew, we had to survive in a capitalist world when most of us did not have education, and most of all I think a lot of us believed that the fall of the Wall would be the end of all our worries.  
It was not. It was not, and, as I smoked my nostalgia away, I admit to have mourned my youth.

"Im Atlas fehlt ein Staat…"


End file.
